Catch You When You Fall
by CheekyBrunette
Summary: Inspired by Secrets by LittleMissOops.  Basically, Logan has a nightmare/flashback to the last time his dad had beaten him, where it had gotten out of hand.  This is sort of dark, hense the rating, so you've been warned.  I don't own BTR.


**It was raining really hard, and I was in a dark, evilish sort of mood. And then I started listening to "Break Even" by The Script, and the first part made me think of this… Which is honestly weird…**

Logan tossed in his sleep. A cold, sticky sweat covered his wracking body, his heart beat a blur, burning in his chest. Logan's legs kicked, tangling in his sheets as he tried to escape his nightmare. But Logan didn't scream. Screaming just got him beaten harder, and he could never break that habit.

* * *

_Seven-year-old Logan Mitchell was quickly washing the dishes, trying to get them done in the time his father allowed. Forks, knives, and plates slipped through his small, soapy fingers, threatening to clatter to the floor. His heart caught with each faulty move, but he couldn't slow down. He had to finish, or he would be punished, just like he would be if he dropped anything._

_It was too hard._

_Logan watched in horror as a glass fell, coming to a stop as it shattered on the white tile floor. He scrambled to pick up the pieces, wincing as the broken glass pierced his hands. Logan got on his knees, cleaning frantically, but in his heart he knew it didn't matter. A figure loomed over him, and Logan gagged in fear._

_The seven-year-old looked up at his father, fear etched in to his little face, not unusually. "Dad-" he choked, terrified, "I-I'm s-s-sorry, don't-don't-" he couldn't form words, he was too afraid. _

_His eyes flickered as he took in his father's expression. Logan had long since learned to judge how bad he was going to be beaten by the look his father wore. His stomach knotted at his father's wild, bloodshot eyes. He quaked as his dad's meaty hand dug into his shoulder, and the man dragged him over to the oven, still preheated from dinner._

_Mr. Mitchell cursed and yelled at his son, but Logan didn't hear any of it. He was completely hypnotized as he watched him toss a long, serrated bread knife into the oven and turn on the stove. The burner clicked as the flame caught gas. _

_Logan went numb. He knew what was coming._

"_I said, GIVE ME YOUR ARM!" Logan heard his father yell as he turned back in. Before he could respond, his dad yanked on his arm, pulling it out of its socket. He pressed it onto the hot burner. Logan bit back a scream. He couldn't let the neighbors hear him, for fear of his dad being angry. Besides, they couldn't save him. He'd given up hope of that a long time ago._

_He shut up his eyes in pain, counting the seconds. This was the hard part of getting burned: the beginning. Later, the white hot fury of the fire would die down to a nearly unbearable itch on his skin, too scorched to scratch. _

_Mr. Mitchell shouted at Logan, and with each hurtful, unrepeatable word, Logan flinched away. Of all the things his father had done to him, this was the thing Logan hated the most. He could patch up cuts and bruises, but he couldn't fix what his dad didn't like about him, no matter how hard he tried. That too familiar feeling of guilt sat uncomfortably in the pit of his empty stomach. Tears fell down his cheeks. If only he was better-_

_A hard hand slapped him out of his self pity, leaving a red print on his face. He was vaguely aware of his dad yelling at him to stop crying, but he couldn't concentrate on the words. The pain was too great. _

_A punch to the stomach sent him vomiting on the kitchen tile. He felt a strong kick to his shin, forcing him to lean on the stove, digging his arm harder into the burner, its swirly pattern engraving into his skin._

_He gasped for breath as his father's knee twisted into his ribcage. He needed air almost as much as his chest refused to expand. A kick to the chest, a slap to the face, an elbow to the shoulder, the hits blurred together. A fist connected to his skull, and he saw stars. His mouth tasted acrid, and he was only aware of two things. One was the pain consuming every part of his body. The other was the seconds._

_1287. 13 minutes 27 seconds since his arm had first been pressed into the flames. He dully lifted his head, trying to make out the hands of the kitchen clock. A small piece of hope filled in the center of his heart. If he could last only 36 more minutes, 2160 seconds, then his mom would be home, and his dad would stop._

_A sharp jab to his side made him crumple to the ground. The only thing that kept his head from cracking on the floor was his dislocated arm. His father still held it onto the stove, and he dangled from it pathetically._

_Spit flecked his forehead as his dad screamed in his face. He tried to pull away, but Mr. Mitchell's rough hand was tight around his neck, shoving him up against the oven door, the back of his head burning on the hot, glass surface. His arm was twisted painfully, and he could feel his neck bruising under his dad's fingers. He needed air as his eyesight blurred. He kept counting._

_1467. Eleven and a half minutes to go._

_His dad cursed as his knuckles touched the hot oven surface. Out of spite, he back handed Logan's face. The outskirt his vision blackened. He nearly cried, he was so thankful his throat had been released. He kept counting, numbers were his only way through these things._

_His father dug his heel into his ankle. Logan squeaked as it shattered, crippling him. His dad started walking away, and, for a second, Logan thought he was done and breathed a sigh of relief. Then his dad advanced on him, a wild, crazed look in his eyes, armed with an oven mitt._

_Mr. Mitchell ripped open the oven door, making a clanging sound as it bounced on its hinges. Logan cowered underneath, and dragged himself over to the corner of the kitchen with his good arm. Pain coursed through his veins and he could barely move. '_This is bad_'. _

_His dad tore the oven rack out, clawing for the hot knife's handle. He grinned wickedly at its jagged blade, and Logan was fairly certain his dad was drunk._

_Fairly certain became painfully obvious as he staggered toward Logan, the effects of all the alcohol he'd been drinking finally kicking into his system. It wasn't a surprise for Mr. Mitchell to be drunk. It was a surprise for him to be sober. _

_Logan was whirled around, face smushed into the corner cabinet. He had a fleeting though, '_I'm going to die_'. Then the knife hit him._

_It sliced through his skin and shirt, tearing at his muscle and leaving jagged wounds behind, wrecking his back. Logan could feel his blood sizzle from the heat of its molten metal. He cried out, earning him another slash to the back. The cuts became bloody, sticky, singed messes. He let out a painful sob, his chest still hurting from when his father had hit him there._

_He felt his dad sawing at his side, purple from being kicked. '_Why couldn't I have been better?'_he thought mournfully as his world faded to black. With darkness looming in on him, he made out the sound of three, young voices yelling behind him. 1687. He'd made it twenty nine minutes._

_And then there was nothing._

* * *

Logan bolted upright, waking from his sleep. His scream pierced the air, and he leaned over the side of the bed, throwing up. Tears streaked his face, and he suddenly became aware of three sets of hands comforting him. He flinched at their touch, but then relaxed into it, knowing they belonged to friends. His body was tense.

Logan collapsed onto Kendall. He buried his face in his shoulder, soaking through the other boy's tee shirt. He scrubbed at his face, trying to dry his tears and compose himself. "I-I'm s-s-sss-sorry," he attempted speech through his chattering teeth. He pulled away from Kendall, and felt James's protective grip on his shoulder tighten. He met the taller boy's eyes.

"Don't you _ever_ be," he said firmly, meaning it.

Logan didn't know what to do. Emotion coursed through him, leaving him unable to focus on anything else. He just sat up straight in bed and stared back at James, blubbering like a baby, lost. He didn't know what to feel or what to do. He just… He just…

Logan gave up on processing his feelings. He gave up on figuring out what to do with himself. He let it go. Logan grabbed his three friends, holding them close in a death grip so tight, he thought his arms would fall off. But he didn't let go, and neither did they.

Carlos, James, and Kendall were more than his best friends. They were his saviors. They were there for him on that day, they were there for him the days after that, they were there with him now, when he needed them most. Cause Logan needed saving.

They would always be there to catch him when he fell.

**I don't know how this happened at all. So yeah. Maybe at some point in the distant future I will do a Logangst fic about this, but right now I am currently doing three BTR multichapters, and I can't handle anymore than that.**

**QUOTE FROM MY TEACHER: "We've been living in trashcans all these years. I'm throwing off the lid." He was talking for the people in Egypt and Libya. Isn't that awesome? Needless to say, my class was impressed.**

**Inspired by Secrets by LittleMissOops**


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